


Some Say the Winter Sings

by WaldosAkimbo



Series: Space Angel Hermann and Witch Doctor Newt [2]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Cute, Fluff, M/M, Magic, Space Angel Hermann, Wings, Witch Doctor Newton, but other than that seriously just pure fluff, rated teen for a tiny allusion to sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22148995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: There's a special ceremony for the New Year that Newt and Hermann participate in that deals with the stars.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: Space Angel Hermann and Witch Doctor Newt [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594204
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12





	Some Say the Winter Sings

**Author's Note:**

> I just really like Space Angel Hermann and Witch Doctor Newt and missed them. So. I bring you a very small fluffy new year fic, even though I'm 6 days late on the actual New Year celebration, oh well. And having baby Jake and baby Reyes AND baby Amara in the other fic is just me not caring about timelines, really. It's the Pacific Rim way (go check out the wiki and tell me nobody knows how timelines work.)

To say it was cold out was to say the air was crisp in a way that tore at the center of the chest with each inhale, or if taken through the nose was a frostbite in each nostril while the wind bit at cheeks and the tips of ears. Newt had forgotten his hat—on purpose—and chucked condensation into the itchy wool of a scarf he had curled up around his bearded mouth with each exhale. He trudged on anyways, happy enough to cross the village from the new Mori/Beckett household where he had been asked to check up on some vitals before the final snowstorm stuck them inside. With any luck, the little tyke wouldn’t join them until late March.

Newt had his hands stuffed into the pockets of his peacoat and watched the heavy tread in the snowbanks where someone had stubbornly forced one of their horses to drag a cart. Nobody bothered with a motor vehicle in this weather. Or, more accurately, someone _had_ bothered last Tuesday, and they had gotten it stuck and it was buried halfway up the frame, waiting for a thaw to fetch it much, much later. Newt looked for it then on habit and marked it as halfway back to his home.

It's not that the streets were empty by any stretch. Children’s laughter peeled through the cold air and around the corner and someone hocked a snowball straight for the black metal of a lamppost, which exploded in a powdery grenade. Three kids stumbled out into the street soon after, racing away from the little tyrant who had a strong right arm. They were each screaming with laughter. It spread out around them like any good virus and Newt shifted the weight on his back before he stepped close to the brick wall to let the children race past.

“Hi, Dr. Geiszler!”

“Hi, Doc!”

“Hey, Newt!”

Newt laughed too and almost corrected the two flanking little Miss Reyes, but he was caught with a snowball to the side of the head and answered instead with, “ow! Sonova _bitch_ that—”

“Ha! Gotcha! You…oh.” A boy with a bright knit cap and his coat half undone skidded off the sidewalk, his face flushed and ecstatic until it fell when he spotted wet snow melting off Newt’s cheek. “Ohmygod, I’msosorryIdidn’tmeanitpleasedon’ttellmydad ohmygod!”

Newt’s glasses were fogging up already. Natural warmth and, sure, maybe because he was upset, if just a _moment_. It was obscuring the boy and little Miss Reyes and her other friends, who were running as quickly as they could away from the potential meltdown from someone bigger and stronger than them. Newt didn’t blame them. He’d been afraid of adults being assholes when he was a kid too. But, instead of playing into habits, he just rubbed his cheek with his gloved fingers and swallowed the rest of his curses, so they’d dissolve in his gullet.

“I’m so sorry!”

“Hey!” Newt turned, the black leather satchel hanging on his back bumping hard into his shoulder and threatening to knock him off kilter. He recovered quickly. “It’s alright. You got me solid, kid. You really did.”

“I – oh.” The boy twisted his hands together in front of him, haphazardly clasping his coat together. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be! Didn’t break my glasses, right?”

He squinted, staying firmly put where he had been standing as Newt slowly moved closer. Then he shook his head hard and fixed his jacket again, still unbuttoned, shifting it to hang off one shoulder and then the other.

“So. It’s all good,” Newt continued. “Go on and get your friends….”

There was a natural pause before the boy leaned forward and nodded. “Oh. Jake.”

“Jake? Awesome.” Newt held out his gloved hand to Jake, who had no idea what to do with it. He finally attempted to shake it and Newt grasped his hand in return. “I’m Newt.”

“Newt the…the crazy witch doctor who lives with Mr. Gottlieb?”

“Why the hell am I the crazy one?” Newt muttered, spinning away a little to mute his reply. He sighed heavily and laughed again. “Yeah. I live with Hermann. You look a little too young to be in one of his classes though.”

Jake grinned and hunched down, a little kid with a secret. Then he looked around and said, “My dad’s taking a class,” he whispered, which caused Newt to lean down to hear him more, smiling in the shared secret.

“Really? That’s great,” he whispered back. “Now go on. Go get your friends.” And he stepped out of the way, so Jake could take off, already scooping up a ball of snow and forming into a hard little ball of almost-ice on his way. Newt chuckled to himself and watched the tyke for a moment, sighing happily back into his wool scarf once more.

The clouds overhead finally broke later in the afternoon, just as Newt was coming up to their cottage. They had upgraded from that one-room thing to something still so small and quaint, but it was closer to the edge of the village and had a modest garden. Better yet, it was flanked by their neighbor’s barn, which gave them a modicum of isolated privacy. Their only witnesses to their late-night meetings under the stars— _and occasional flights, too_ —were the barnyard animals. A cow. Three chickens. A lamb. A goose.

That goose would rat them out if it could form human words. Newt just knew it, in his soul. He _knew_ it.

Besides the tangible and the real, the _in_ tangible and the _un_ real were also posted around their cottage. They were closer to the forest now, and the spirits of the area quickly found Newt and Hermann’s new home and collected themselves on the doorstep or near the chimney or in the windowsills. A few were particular about their gardening habits, until Hermann figured out a plan that made most of them happy. He spoiled them with little dishes of milk left in the moonlight. Newt spoiled them with clovers and garlic bulbs and thistle. And they both spoiled them with conversations.

As soon as Newt stepped in, he smelled something spicy and hot. The fire roaring in their hearth was enough to melt the big fluffy snowflakes in his perpetually disheveled hair.

“Herms? You trying to burn the place down?”

“I don’t know. Are you trying to make yourself an icicle?”

There was the distinct sound of uneven footsteps before Hermann stepped out from the cramped kitchen hidden around a wall. He was stirring something tight against his chest, forgoing the use of a pot holder or a towel, which meant it must not be very hot. Hermann could withstand a lot, but even he had learned what a burn was like.

There were many things he had to learn, considering he wasn’t from Earth in the first place. He was a great student, too. So good, in fact, that he deemed himself fit to be a _teacher_ , albeit limited to the village where he taught mathematics and astrology to a small number of folks next to the bakery. Newt considered that Hermann might even be joining him at the university next semester. They’d need to forge some paperwork, but…well, it could be done.

Maybe they’d move over to the city then, if that happened.

But they’d miss the forest and all their spirit friends so much. It was difficult to even think about. So, at the moment, Newt did not. No, at the moment, Newt focused on reaching out and kissing Hermann while he stirred up something sweet and light and in need of frosting when it was finished baking.

“Who in the hell gave you a recipe for gingerbread?”

“The neighbors,” he answered. It wasn’t even the neighbor to their home, it was that bakery. The one with the quaint couple and their wonderful French bread. “Also, I saved up some vegetables for the stew. I think one of those Huldufólk is playing near the fire.”

Newt glanced over, still wrapping himself around the beanpole that was Hermann.

“They like volcanoes. Who can blame them.”

The incandescent shift in the hearth was not going to steal him away from “Mr. Gottlieb.” They rarely got any of the hidden creatures up from the Faroese except during the calm moments before blistering blizzards that isolated them so thoroughly from the outside world. They were lucky to have travelers, and to have them feel safe enough to come visit inside. Sometimes Hermann would bribe them with an extra treat at the table and patience to wait until they stepped into his hand and allowed themselves a moment of silent communication.

Newt never got bribed with a treat at the end of the table.

He couldn’t complain, really. He did get a home cooked meal and the potential for gingerbread cookies in the near future. And if he wanted a chance to talk to Hermann, he had to just open his mouth and speak. Or close his mouth and lean in and steal a—

Hermann laughed, pressing two fingers up to Newt’s lips.

“In a moment,” he said evenly, his voice steady and low, even if he was smiling.

“A moment? Now,” Newt said, edging into a whine. “I almost died out there!”

“Oh?” Hermann was not actually that gullible, and it was clear with the way his eyes softened, focusing on folding the heavy dough before him on a now heavily-flowered cutting board, he was not buying Newt’s complaint. “Is that so?”

“It _is_ so,” Newt answered. “Do you see this? Red? Yeah, I was attacked!”

Hermann tsked and turned. He dusted his hands down his front before framing Newton’s face, the long fingers tickling up into Newt’s damp waves.

“Let’s see, then,” he whispered gently, and tugged Newt in for a kiss.

The beauty of the day reverberated back between them, sharing snippets for one or both to focus on. Hermann, laughing at something so delightful that the baker’s wife had said, although the actual words were forgotten. He gladly held onto the components he had purchased and the recipe she had shared, telling them both to have a good day before he carefully made his way back out in the sparkling sunlight.

Newt shared the warmth of Mako and Raleigh’s home, the ceremony of warming the house spirits to bless them and the little mishap with the vials in his traveler’s case before he got the right set to check the health of their unborn child.

Hermann shared the sensations of smell, the sharp ginger and the tinkling temptation of sugar, the feel of working with his hands and the unknowable distance of the starlight, a friendly chain to turn to, to return to, to ground himself when he needed it.

Newt shared the snowball fight and little Jake pelting him in the face.

Both of them shared the love in their kiss, the golden heat of contact, and they tightened their hold a moment before they broke away.

“A _child_ did this?”

It was the first thing he said, of course it was, and Hermann touched the slight bruise on Newt’s cheek.

“Hey! He had a strong arm!”

“He’s five.”

“You’re five,” Newt shot back, blowing air on Hermann’s fingertips. Less a sensual whisper of air but a furious little spout with spit and pursed lips. Hermann lifted his hand away completely, safely away from Newt’s furious little outburst. “It hurt like a bitch.”

“I know,” Hermann said, his eyes still crinkling where he was smiling. “You’re so tender.”

“ _You’re_ tender!” Before Hermann pulled away completely, he buried his face against Hermann’s chest and stayed there, until Hermann pet his hair and kissed above his ear.

Hermann finished up baking while Newt cleaned himself up, hiding in their bedroom long enough to change his clothes and set the snowy wet ones out to dry near the fireplace. He returned in heavy socks and a sweater too long for him, too big, where the sleeves ate up his fists when he let them.

“You’ll want a hat this time, too,” Hermann said absently, sitting at their tiny table and nudging a plate of warm milk towards an empty chair. The chair squeaked when it pulled away, rattling slightly, then going still, as something invisible lapped at the saucer. They’d show themselves if he looked harder than a glance, but Newt was too busy musing with the camera he still had yet to put away up on the self.

“I don’t _do_ hats,” Newt answered.

“You’ll want one this time.”

“What about you?”

“Me?” Hermann asked, watching the spirit drinking the milk. He chuckled and stretched back. “I won’t need a hat.”

“That’s not fair!”

“I don’t need clothes, either, but it seems appropriate to wear them.”

Newt paused, looking up from the fireplace, and fought to keep his face neutral. “Well, if you don’t _need_ them,” he started, inching his way closer, tip toeing across the sturdy floorboards until he was just behind Hermann, who had apparently anticipated him and reached up to run his broad hand up Newt’s arm, catching him from both stepping further away or any closer. Newt had to lean down to brush his lips across Hermann’s ear. “We could always remove them….”

“You’re a demon.”

“Says the space angel,” Newt shot back before he kissed Hermann’s cheek.

It took little convincing to sneak into his lap, straddling the chair and peppering his face with his lips, enjoying the distant static of electricity before he found his mark on Hermann’s lips and fell into him.

They were lucky they did not burn the cookies, nor the cottage down with it.

Hermann had removed himself from the tangle of half-discarded clothing and limbs to pull the small tray out of the tiny stove. He returned to a half-asleep Newt, sweat-damp and glasses foggy, and offered him a tiny cookie in the shape of a poorly-defined man. Newt laid himself back in Hermann’s lap and they ate with the quiet comfort of the fire and the spirits around them chattering, laughing, singing and playing. Newt hummed with them when he could and traced the uneven scar patterns on Hermann’s leg, the old scales of the first treatment bleeding into the puckered flesh. He had healed remarkably well after that first fall from the heavens and, on most occasions, he only needed his cane when he was on long walks.

“Trying to inspire a second round?” Hermann mused, petting Newt’s hair away from his forehead.

“Afterwards,” Newt answered, and closed his eyes while he was comforted.

“Alright.” Hermann bent himself in half to lean down far enough and kiss Newt’s shoulder. And, for good measure, he added, “You’ll still need a hat.”

-♦-

After the coin was dropped in the frosted bucket at the edge of town to pay for safe travels and to maintain the road—who collected them at this time of year? How many of them were just Newt’s coins?—they wandered into the forest.

It was different from the lush green during the summers, or the mystical reds and yellows of autumn. Now it felt smaller with the dark bare trunks and branches, the trees all dormant and a blanket of pure undisturbed snow trapped in the canopy above them. Far less had made it down to the forest floor and their usual trail was waiting for them in the hazy glow of the setting sun. Everything once clean and bright had absorbed the rosy red of the dying light, and it looked deceptively warm, like embers reflected in the icicles.

Newt and Hermann walked hand in hand with the help of Hermann’s cane. They had left behind the traveler’s case and the camera and even a specimen jar, which seemed like he was walking naked as anything. Newt had to keep his hands busy on Hermann’s arm, gently gripping his thick wool coat. They both had their coats on, and slacks, and sturdy boots, and gloves and scarves and, yes, Newt had on a cable-knit hat he had found on the foot of the bed, conveniently rescued from the back of his closet. He was sure he had not worn it since he was little, living with his father and uncle. It should be embarrassing that it still somehow fit, but perhaps the knit was just very loose. Uncle Illia was not known for his yarn work.

By the time they reached the edge of the forest and into the hillside that Newt so favored, Hermann set his cane down against the tree, as a marker for them to return to. It should be safe from snowfall and only the random traveler or perhaps an animal of some sort would steal it. Those options seemed unlikely. Though the forest was sleeping through winter, a few wispy ghosts bloomed from the red snow and circled the cane, poking it in curiosity and hugging it as they looked up at their friends. It seemed a good sign that the place was guarded before they started up the first hill.

“Close your eyes,” Hermann reminded him, gripping Newt’s hand tightly.

“I’m not going to peek,” Newt answered, but tugged the knit hat down over his eyes and could not help but laugh as he was suddenly plucked off the ground, soaring fast through the unseen air.

Hermann had been right. The hat was a must have. Without it, his ears would have been stinging so badly and, honestly, it helped even protect his eyes from watering and freezing to his cheeks.

Their ascent slowed and finally the jarring feeling of Hermann stepping onto ground made Newt peek again. He sniffled, remembering how to breathe, and was soon back out of Hermann’s arms and standing beside him, holding his side.

“Holy _shit_.”

“You say like it’s not the same as last time.”

“It’s not,” Newt assured him. “It is _definitely_ not.”

They were not simply up on the peak of one of the hills in the valley they were up in the mountains, standing on clearing near a cliff side that slipped down towards the ocean. It was fantastically cold, the wind cutting through them and the snow hard. Even in the oncoming nightfall, it still glittered, the thread of hard ice all around them.

Already, with the twilight to highlight it, a very rare cloud of lights began to grow and blossom into greens and blues away from the mountain’s peak. Behind them, the tears in reality, ragged holes that looked like galaxies, folded themselves neatly against Hermann’s back and he leaned into Newt, cheek brushing frozen cheek.

There were few times a year when the stars lined up just so, to open the skies up and show off the tenuous threads of the universe. Never this far down south, of course, except these rare instances at the beginning of the year.

The stars sang.

And, for a few moments, Newt could actually hear them.

Hermann pressed in close and closed his eyes as he held onto Newt, feeling the vibrations cast down from the other rangers spread out across the universe who called out to each other during their little ceremonies of peace. It was a strange angelic choir, not human or instrumental, but something that slipped into them like stones tumbling down a heavy creek.

The song churned and died as the little wisps of color began to fade. Newt stared until they were gone completely, and the cold starlight replaced them as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon of the ocean.

He felt….

He felt oddly exhausted after these rare moments. Not the same overwhelming sense when he accidentally saw Hermann’s wings, but a weary heaviness that dragged him down, like it took every ounce of energy just to witness it. He tried to remember the song. He really did. But that too was already starting to fade, and he clutched Hermann’s hands around his waist like a belt to keep himself from slipping.

They sat together on the rocks, letting him catch his breath and Hermann rubbed over the Newt’s heart, idly kissing his cheek. He even removed Newt’s hat and massaged his scalp, the cold instant and harsh but so much better than wearing a stupid hat.

Next time, he would be more prepared. He was sure of it. He was getting better with the wings and everything. So. Magical starlight and angelic song would be a treat next year.

“Happy New Year, Herms,” Newt said, relaxing as feeling returned to his aching fingertips.

“Happy New Year, Newt.”


End file.
